After reading the letter, Haukur Leó had made up his mind to go and find her. He hadn’t even stopped to think. And now he knew that the decision had been a disastrous one. He should, of course, have gone straight to the police. Instead, he had got out his rucksack and packed his hunting knife, just to be on the safe side, as he didn’t know what kind of reception he’d get, and a compass and some cash as well. His daughter had enclosed a leaflet with detailed directions for how to find the farm. Thus prepared, he had roared off in his Mitsubishi, on the long, dark drive across Iceland, without a word to his wife. But then their relationship was increasingly characterized by silences. They had so little to talk about these days.
Thinking back to it now, he wondered what on earth had come over him. Well, for one thing, he hadn’t wanted to raise any false hopes in his wife and, for another, he had felt a burning desire to get even with the woman on the farm. He had been so angry. He still was. Full of a bitter rage. Words were inadequate to describe the intensity of his hatred. He no longer recognized himself.
The journey east had gone better than he could have hoped, in spite of the wintry weather. He had driven recklessly, breaking the speed limit the whole way, taking his life in his hands on the single-track road that unrolled before him, heading endlessly eastwards. Perhaps it would have been better if he had been pulled over by the police, since then he would have been forced to tell them where he was going and would no doubt have come to his senses.
But it was as if everything had conspired to speed him on his way. Hour after hour, fuelled by fury and hope, he had followed the ribbon of road through the long winter night, across the empty wastes of the glacial plains, only occasionally passing the lights of remote farms, until finally he hit snowy weather in the east and was forced to slow his headlong pace. The morning was well advanced and a grey dawn had broken by the time he reached the turn-off. The road conditions, which had been reasonable up to now, worsened dramatically as soon as he left the Ring Road. Eventually, the way ahead became blocked with impassable drifts and, foolishly, he had tried to drive around them, only to get the car stuck. After that, there had been nothing for it but to continue on foot.
He was shocked by the force of the wind when he got out of the car, but he was well equipped and knew roughly how much further it was to the farm. All he had to do was follow the road markers. This proved easier said than done, however, since they were widely spaced and the wind was blowing up clouds of loose snow, almost as if the flakes were falling from the sky. If the weather had been any worse, he might have gone astray, but the luck that had brought him safely this far had held good. First, he had come upon another house. For a while, as it grew steadily nearer, he had believed it was the farm he was looking for, but once he got closer he saw that it was abandoned and realized that he hadn’t walked nearly as far as he had thought. There had been no need to fake his exhaustion by the time he finally reached the farmhouse. It had appeared round a bend in the road, light streaming from its windows across the snow as if it were on a Christmas card, but he had known better. He knew that something appalling had happened there. The only thing he wasn’t sure about was whether Unnur was still alive. That was the big question. So he had been forced to approach the occupants warily and try to scout out the place before revealing why he had come. Before the confrontation. In his haste, he had thoughtlessly given his correct name, his middle name, by which he was usually known. Presumably he’d got away with it, though, since his daughter’s patronymic had been Hauksdóttir, not Leósdóttir.
The woman, Erla, had been suspicious from the start. No doubt the bloody bitch had guessed why he had come. She knew that sooner or later her monstrous crime would be exposed. She had kept a close eye on him, making it hard for him to search the house for clues. Nevertheless, he had managed, during the night, to sneak up to the attic, where he had found the room Unnur had presumably been staying in, only now there was nobody there. As he stood in the room, he had broken down in tears – he who never cried – because he had sensed then that she was dead. That he had come far too late.
He’d found it harder to figure out the man, Einar. Did he know what had happened to Unnur? And what exactly had happened in this house, which appeared so ordinary? It gave the impression of being cosy and welcoming, with the Christmas tree in the sitting room and the presents arranged underneath, the crackling hiss of the radio in the background; an old-fashioned Icelandic country home. The lies he told had been poorly thought out: he had got lost, yet no one was looking for him. He hadn’t seen any other buildings … One foolish mistake after another. The moment he got a chance he had disconnected the phone in the sitting room, trying to do it
